Britt Marie Was Here Quotes

At a certain age almost all the questions a person asks him or herself are really just about one thing: how should you live your life?

An unreasonable amount of paperwork is required these days just to be a human being.

Because if we don’t forgive those we love, then what is left? What is love if it’s not loving our lovers even when they don’t deserve it?

A human being may not choose her circumstances, but she does choose her actions

A few years turned into more years, and more years turned into all years. Years have a habit of behaving like that.

It’s difficult to know when love blooms; suddenly one day you wake up and it’s in full flower. It works the same way when it wilts—one day it is just too late.

You have to understand that when one is just standing there looking, then just for a second one is ready to jump. If one does it, one dares to do it. But if one waits, it’ll never happen.

If a human being closes her eyes hard enough and for long enough, she can remember pretty well everything that has made her happy.

You love football because it is instinctive. If a ball comes rolling down the street you give it a punt. You love it for the same reason you fall in love. Because you don't know how to avoid it.

She wonders how much space a person has left in her soul to change herself, once she gets older. What people does she still have to meet, what will they see in her, and what will they make her see in herself?

All other emotions belong to the earth, but passion inhabits the universe.

The winter requires whoever is doing the watering to have a bit of faith, in order to believe that what looks empty has every potential.

A human being, any human being at all, has so perishingly few chances to stay right there, to let go of time and fall into the moment. And to love someone without measure, explode with passion... A few times when we are children, maybe, for those of us who are allowed to be... But after that? How many breaths are we allowed to take beyond the confines of ourselves? How many pure emotions make us cheer out loud without a sense of shame? How many chances do we get to be blessed by amnesia? All passion is childish, it's banal and naive, it's nothing we learn, it's instinctive, and so it overwhelms us... Overturns us... It bears us away in a flood... All other emotions belong to the earth, but passion inhabits the universe. That is the reason why passion is worth something. Not for what it gives us, but for what it demands that we risk - our dignity, the puzzlement of others in their condescending shaking heads...

All passion is childish. It's banal and naive. It's nothing we learn; it's instinctive, and so it overwhelms us. Overturns us. It bears us away in a flood. All other emotions belong to earth, but passion inhabits the universe. That is the reason why passion is worth something, not for what it gives us but for what it demands we risk. Our dignity. The puzzlement of others and their condescending, shaking heads

The reason for her love of maps. It’s half worn away, the dot, and the red color is bleached. Yet it’s there, flung down there on the map halfway between the lower left corner and its center, and next to it is written, “You are here.” Sometimes it’s easier to go on living, not even knowing who you are, when at least you know precisely where you are while you go on not knowing

Sometimes it’s easier to go on living, not even knowing who you are, when at least you know precisely where you are while you go on not knowing.

What does it mean when someone supports Manchester United or whatever it's called?" ... "They always win. So they've started believing they deserve to.

A year turned into several years, and several years turned into all the years. One morning you wake up with more life behind you than in front of you, not being able to understand how it's happened.

If you have a dad who supports Liverpool you always fucking think you can turn anything around. You know! Ever since that Champions League final.

Because life is more than the shoes your feet are in. More than the person you are. It's the togetherness. The parts of yourself in another. Memories and walls and cupboards and drawers with compartments for cutlery, so you know where everything is.

You’re never quite alone when you can stand on a balcony—you have all the cars and houses and the people in the streets. You’re among them, but also not. That’s the best thing about balconies.

Human beings are the only animals that smile as a gesture of peace, whereas other animals show their teeth as a threat.

When she realizes that they are about to fall, she summons the strength to stand on her own two feet. Because that is what women like Britt-Marie do. They find the strength when they have to do something for others.

If you support Tottenham you always give more love than you get back... Tottenham is the worst kind of bad team, because they're almost good. They always promise that they're going to be fantastic. They make you hope. So you go on loving them and they carry on finding more and more innovative ways of disappointing you

But in the end all he can manage to utter is: “I want you to know, Britt-Marie, that every time there’s a knock on my front door, I hope it’s you.

My mother worked for the social services all her life. She always said that in the middle of all the crap, in the thick of it all, you always had a sunny story turning up. Which makes it all worthwhile.' The next words that come are smiling. 'You're my sunny story, Britt-Marie.

It takes years to know a human being. An entire lifetime. It's what makes a home a home.

I want someone to know I’m here.

If you mix vanilla extract with baking soda, the refrigerator smells fresh.

It’s easier to stay optimistic if you never have to clear up the mess afterwards.

You do get irritated by someone taking an interest in you, when you’re not used to it.

They forgot what made them successful.” “What do you do when that happens?” “You start again.

She’s frozen to the spot, held in place by a whole lifetime of thwarted ambitions.

She has not run down the stairs like this since she was a teenager, when your heart reaches the front door before your feet.

All passion is childish. It's banal and naive. It's nothing we learn; it's instinctive, and so it overwhelms us. Overturns us. It bears us away in a flood. All other emotions belong to the earth, but passion inhabits the universe.

Britt-Marie feels Fredrik’s hateful stare at her back as she and Vega follow her down the corridor, so she slows and walks behind Vega, to stop his stares hitting the girl.

Soccer is a curious game, because it doesn’t ask to be loved. It demands it.

Death is the ultimate state of powerlessness. Powerlessness is the ultimate despair.

I was under the impression that one became a policeman because one believes in rules and regulations." "I think Sven became a policeman because he believes in justice.

It’s hard not to want to go back to your normal life once you know how difficult it is to start again.

If a human being closes her eyes hard and long enough, she can remember all the times she has made a choice in her life just for her own sake. And realize, perhaps, that it has never happened.

The girl glances at the surface of the desk, which looks as if toddlers have been trying to eat potatoes off it. With pitchforks. In the dark.

A plastic mug! Are we at war?

Soccer is poetry for me, you

She imagined she'd like to explain that it's difficult to know who you are once you are alone, when you have always been there for the sake of someone else.

There are certainly a good number of alternatives to "shit," if you have a particular need to express such a feeling.

Somebody has one of the worst hairstyles Britt-Marie has ever laid eyes on, as if she’s combed her hair with a terrified animal.

It's difficult to know when love blooms; suddenly one day you wake up and it's in full flower. It works the same way when it wilts—one day it is just too late.

All her words to him are like staying in a hotel, new and curious and tentatively fumbling for switches on the wall, repeatedly turning on different lights that those she wanted to turn on.

Britt-Marie is very proud of the notes. She has written them in ink. Anyone who knows Britt-Marie understands what an outstanding achievement it is for Britt-Marie to control her compulsion never to write anything in ink. People really do change when they travel.

She briefly considers telling the rat about her life crisis. She imagines she’d like to explain that it’s difficult to know who you are once you are alone, when you have always been there for the sake of someone else. But she doesn’t want to trouble the rat with it.

She was good at this, and people want to do the things they’re good at. People want someone to know they are there.

Love doesn’t have to be fireworks for everyone. It could be a question of capital cities with five letters or knowing exactly when it’s time to reheel your shoes.

... in the middle of all the crap, in the thick of it all, you always had a sunny story turning up. Which makes it all worthwhile.

Afternoon turns to evening in Borg, quick and merciless, as if dusk is pulling a Band-Aid off the daylight.

I’m not particularly taken with soccer,” says Britt-Marie as politely as she can, which quite possibly is not very politely at all.

If a human being closes her eyes she can remember all the choices in her life. And realize they have all been for the sake of someone else.

But Bank likes beer! Take her beer instead, huh?” Britt-Marie didn’t find this very civilized, but she accepted that beer might be a little like flowers to someone who liked beer.

It’s impossible to be good enough for a parent after losing a sister who, in all important respects, was a better version of yourself.

So Britt-Marie stays in there and dries her hair and brings them luck and has a life crisis. It’s possible to do all of these things at the same time.

The human brain has a monstrous ability to re-create memories of such clarity that the rest of the body loses all sense of time.

Pirate’s unruly mop has been tenderly coaxed into a hairstyle as neat as biological circumstances will allow.

Because sometimes love isn’t enough.

...хората искат да правят нещата, които умеят. Искаме някой да знае, че сме тук. И това да има значение.

Britt-Marie is convinced she's about to have a heart attack, but when she explains this to Bank, Bank says, 'That's how it's meant to be when you're watching soccer.

It's difficult to know when love blooms; suddenly one day you wake up and it's in full flower. It works the same way when it wilts-one day it is just too late. Love has a great deal in common with balcony plants in that way. Sometimes not even baking soda makes a difference.

Tickling light falls over warm duvets, like the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. It shouldn't be doing this. It's the wrong day to be beautiful, but the dawn doesn't care.

That is the reason why passion is worth something, not for what it gives us but for what it demands that we risk. Our dignity. The puzzlement of others and their condescending, shaking heads.

Human beings are the only animals that smile as a gesture of peace, whereas other animals show their teeth as a threat. This is perfectly understandable now; she can see the animal inside the human being.

I was once told that ‘You love soccer because it’s instinctive. If a ball comes rolling down the street you give it a punt. You love it for the same reason that you fall in love. Because you don’t know how to avoid it.

All marriages have their bad sides, because all people have weaknesses. If you live with another human being you learn to handle these weaknesses in a variety of ways. For instance, you might take the view that weaknesses are a bit like heavy pieces of furniture, and based on this you must learn to clean around them. To maintain the illusion. Of course the dust is building up unseen, but you learn to repress this for as long as it goes unnoticed by guests. And then one day someone moves a piece of furniture without your say-so, and everything comes into plain view. Dirt and scratch marks. Permanent damage to the parquet floor. By then it’s too late.

She misses her balcony more than anything. You're never quite alone when you and stand on a balcony - you have all the cars and houses and the people in the streets. You're among them, but also not. That's the best thing about balconies.

nothing we learn; it’s instinctive, and so it overwhelms us. Overturns us. It bears us away in a flood. All other emotions belong to the earth, but passion inhabits the universe. That is the reason why passion is worth something, not for what it gives us but for what it demands that we risk. Our dignity. The puzzlement of others and their condescending, shaking heads.

You have a register. You tick off the people who are there,” says the girl. “A list?” “Yes . . . ?” Britt-Marie has already hung up. She may not know a lot about soccer, but even the gods know that no one is more skilled at lists than Britt-Marie.

Tottenham is the worst kind of bad team, because they’re almost good. They always promise that they’re going to be fantastic. They make you hope. So you go on loving them and they carry on finding more and more innovative ways of disappointing you.

Britt-Marie has never used any other brand than Faxin. She saw an advertisement for it in her father’s morning newspaper when she was a child. A woman stood looking out of a clean window and underneath was written: FAXIN LETS YOU SEE THE WORLD. Britt-Marie loved that picture. As soon as she was old enough to have her own windows, she polished them with Faxin, continued doing so daily for the rest of her life, and never had any problems seeing the world. It was just that the world did not see her.

A few years turned into more years, and more years turned into all years. Years have a habit of behaving like that. It’s not that Britt-Marie chose not to have any expectations, she just woke up one morning and realized they were past their sell-by date.

the children are playing soccer so you can hear it. It has to be experienced before you can understand it, the difference between silent and nonsilent soccer. Britt-Marie stops in the darkness and listens. Every time one of the children gets the ball, their teammates are shouting: “Here! I’m here!” “If you can be heard then you exist,” mutters hungover Bank, massaging her temples.

Sami went to town to protect someone who doesn’t deserve it, and Britt-Marie is getting ready to go home for the same reason. Because if we don’t forgive those we love, then what is left? What is love if it’s not loving our lovers even when they don’t deserve it?

But how is it your team if you don’t play in it?” The boy thinks this over for a moment. Then he seems to take a firm grip on the ball. “We’ve supported this team for longer than most of the players in it. So it’s more our team than theirs.” “Preposterous,” snorts Britt-Marie.

Yet it’s there, flung down there on the map halfway between the lower left corner and its center, and next to it is written, “You are here.” Sometimes it’s easier to go on living, not even knowing who you are, when at least you know precisely where you are while you go on not knowing.

Gafler. Knive. Skeer. I den rækkefølge. Britt-Marie er bestemt ikke typen, der dømmer andre, slet ikke, men et kultiveret menneske kan da ikke finde på at organisere bestikket i en køkkenskuffe på nogen anden måde? Britt-Marie dømmer ikke nogen, slet ikke, men vi er trods alt ikke dyr?

I know, Britt, I know,” said Somebody, grinning. “You don’t have prejudice. You get that I am human, huh. Happen to have the wheelchair. I not wheelchair that happens to have human in it, huh.” She patted Britt-Marie on the arm and added: “That is why I like you, Britt. You are also human.” Britt-Marie

Around them, the dawn gently wakes Borg like someone breathing into the ear of someone they love. With sun and promises. Tickling light falls over warm duvets, like the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. It shouldn't be doing this. It's the wrong day to be beautiful, but the dawn doesn't care.

The balcony boxes may look as if they only contain soil, but underneath there are flowers waiting for spring. The winter requires whoever is doing the watering to have a bit of faith, in order to believe that what looks empty has every potential. Britt-Marie no longer knows whether she has faith or just hope. Maybe neither.

That’s why idiots are always so scared and aggressive. Because nothing scares idiots

And she wept. An ancient, inconsolable despair that screamed and tore and shredded them both as countless hours passed.

No one normal has ever changed a crapping thing.

It may be that a heart only finally breaks after leaving a hospital room in which a shirt smells of pizza and perfume, but it will break more readily if it has burst a few times before.

Then they do the Idiot. Play two-goals. And they are a team. Sami couldn’t come tonight to light up the field with his headlights, but there’s another vehicle in the same place with its headlights turned on. It’s Karl’s truck, with such an impressive amount of rust down its sides it seems unlikely that such a length of time could have passed since the invention of trucks.

She wants to say so much more. Maybe he does too. But in the end all he can manage to utter is: “I want you to know, Britt-Marie, that every time there’s a knock on my front door, I hope it’s you.” Maybe he is also intending to say something bigger, but he holds off and walks away. She wants to call out to him, but it’s too late. The door tinkles cheerfully behind him, because doors really don’t seem to get when the moment is or isn’t right.

Once he used to hold her hand when they slept, and she dreamed his dreams. Not that Britt-Marie didn’t have any dreams of her own; it was just that his were bigger, and the one with the biggest dreams always wins in this world. She had learned that. So she stayed home to take care of his children, without even dreaming of having any of her own. She stayed home another few years to make a presentable home and support him in his career, without dreaming of her own.

So while Ingrid would excel at everything out there in the world, Britt-Marie imagined herself being really good at things inside of it. Cleaning. Making things nice. Her sister noticed this. Noticed her. Britt-Marie did her hair every morning, and her sister never forgot to say, “Thanks, you did that really well, Britt!” while she turned her head in front of the mirror to a tune from one of her vinyl records. Britt-Marie never had records. You don’t need any when you have an older sister who truly sees you.

Finally, out of breath, she fetches a towel from her handbag. Turns off the ceiling light in the kitchen. Sits down on one of the wooden stools in the darkness, and weeps into the towel. She doesn’t want her tears to drip onto the floor. They could leave marks.

Welcome to Borg,” Britt-Marie reads, while she sits on a stool in the darkness and looks at the red dot that first made her fall in love with the picture. The reason for her love of maps. It’s half worn away, the dot, and the red color is bleached. Yet it’s there, flung down there on the map halfway between the lower left corner and its center, and next to it is written, “You are here.” Sometimes it’s easier to go on living, not even knowing who you are, when at least you know precisely where you are while you go on not knowing.

That’s a good name for both the exercise and the person who came up with it.” By now, Sami has started walking back to his car with the telephone pressed to his ear, so he can’t hear her. No one can. But this doesn’t actually concern Britt-Marie so much. The children run between the soft-drink cans and Britt-Marie stands there beside them with a sort of happy fizziness in her whole body, repeating, “A good name for the exercise and the person who came up with it,” very, very quietly to herself. Over and over again. It’s the first time for as long as she can remember that she has intentionally made a joke.

You didn't answer the question--what do you want to be?' she says, winding her scarf through her fingers. Britt-Marie's fingertips move hesitantly over her skirt, like a person moving across a dance floor to ask someone to dance. And then, cautiously, she utters the words: 'I want someone to remember I existed. I want someone to know I was here.

She turns off all the lights except in the bathroom. The sheen of the lone lightbulb finds its way out from under the door and lights up the exact area of the wall where Somebody hung up the information chart, slightly too low but obviously not too low. “Welcome to Borg,” Britt-Marie reads, while she sits on a stool in the darkness and looks at the red dot that first made her fall in love with the picture. The reason for her love of maps. It’s half worn away, the dot, and the red color is bleached. Yet it’s there, flung down there on the map halfway between the lower left corner and its center, and next to it is written, “You are here.” Sometimes it’s easier to go on living, not even knowing who you are, when at least you know precisely where you are while you go on not knowing.

Britt-Marie wasn’t entirely sure that she did. She wanted to take the chance of asking Somebody how it had come to pass that she was in a wheelchair, but at this point the sensible part of Britt-Marie put a stop to things, and in this she was backed up by common practice, because it certainly wasn’t seemly to ask questions of this nature. So the conversation tailed off. Whereupon Somebody rolled back one full turn of the wheels, and then forward one turn. “I fell off one of them boats. When I was small, huh. If you wondering.” “I certainly wasn’t wondering!” insisted Britt-Marie. “I know, Britt, I know,” said Somebody, grinning. “You don’t have prejudice. You get that I am human, huh. Happen to have the wheelchair. I not wheelchair that happens to have human in it, huh.” She patted Britt-Marie on the arm and added: “That is why I like you, Britt. You are also human.” Britt-Marie wanted to say she also liked Somebody, but she was sensible about it.

Každé manželstvo má svoje zlé stránky, lebo každý človek má nejakú slabosť. A každý, kto s niekým žije, sa s jeho slabosťou istým spôsobom naučí zaobchádzať. Môže ju vnímať napríklad ako nesmierne tažký kus nábytku a naučiť sa upratovať okolo neho. Aby sa nenarušila ilúzia. Samozrejme, je mu jasné, že pod nábytkom sa hromadí špina, no naučí sa ju odsúvať tak ďaleko, aby ju nevideli hostia. Potom však jedného dňa ktosi bez opýtania odsunie nábytok a všetko vyjde najavo. Špina aj ryhy. Trvalé poškodenie parkiet. No a vtedy je už neskoro.